In the most boring thing ever, I made my room. That is, I cleaned it. Not my bed.

I would have liked to say food, since in 2014, I hosted various events with Chris and made food from scratch. I would love to say that—to brag about the dinner and 2 breakfasts that I made for my parents’ anniversary weekend on a farm, the themed parties, the way I use buttermilk in biscuits and ice cream, and how I finally figured out how to juice as much possible out of all the scraps that I have.

But the last thing that I “made” as my room. This morning, as I was departing to meet a (new) friend for brunch, I frantically searched for my timbuk2 bag. A black bag with a bright blue trim that stored my bike’s lock and cable. In a fury, I tossed up my pile of bags. The Crumpler messenger bag from La Cocina that I won during an auction. The vertical computer laptop. All the various canvas bags from startups like Gilt and Airbnb. In a moment of brilliance, I remembered that I had moved the timbuk2 bag out of respect for my sister and her boyfriend. In my closet, I found the bag on top of my duffel bag. Running late, I left the disaster in my room that filled every inch of the ground.

I knew that upon return, I would need to muster the energy. Nearly 8 hours later, I did so. Yet, as I picked through the mess, a biodegradable bag from a grocery store, stuffed at the bottom of a canvas bag, spilled into pieces. Now, I mean pieces. Standing true to its nature, the bag had started “decomposing” in my room and shards of white confetti spilled across my rug.

With some organization, I folded the bags together. The loose canvas bags into a large convas bags. The messenger bags underneath my dresser. The coveted “purses” to either side. Then I vacuumed the remaining mess, sucking away the white confetti, my hair, dust, and random dots of remnants.

That’s what I made.

If I had more time, I would make my book. I would pour my energy into truly fixing it. And I think that perhaps I have that feeling right now.